


Bering and Wells AU One-Shots

by gigi2690



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:14:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigi2690/pseuds/gigi2690
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I write a lot of AUs for this pairing on my tumblr, and finally decided to start putting them up in one place. You'll find Batwoman, Lord of the Rings, and Firefly to name of few.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Batwoman

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not copy or duplicate on other sites or mediums without my consent.

Detective Bering’s heel lodged itself in cracked cement as she dashed against rain and logic down one alley after another. Forsaking the right, the left was quickly lobbed to the side, clanging echoingly against a commercial dumpster. She came to a stop under the flickering light of a nearby parking structure. Rain slicked curls obscured her vision, but she didn’t need to look down to know there was no getting her deposit back on the dress. But she hadn’t been able to help herself, having spotted her at the Gala hosted by Wells Enterprises

-the task of rubbing elbows with the wealth and power of Gotham City had fallen to her because to quote her boss, ‘she looked best in a dress.’- 

And perhaps it was a burst of rare rebellion born of a night filled with flirtations and condescension from judges and execs, but she was barefoot and without backup in pursuit of the elusive shadow that had been haunting the streets of her city for as long as she’d had her shield.

“I like the dress, lavender is a lovely colour on you.” She spun around, seeing nothing but shadows clawing at the dimly lit circle she found herself under.

“Not that I don’t also enjoy the dress pants and button downs.” Myka scoffed but it was defensive at best, she knew that a detective’s wardrobe was rather predictable but the tone of her voice spoke of distinct familiarity.

“I wasn’t aware we’d met before. Or do you just enjoy stalking the police on top of your various other illegal activities.” 

The shadow didn’t rise to the bait; rather there was a definite amusement in her response, “You mean delivering the scum of this city gift wrapped to your doorstep?”

“I mean killing the ones you judge unworthy to live.”

The light tinkling laughter was almost drowned out by the rain as a lithe figure finally stepped into the light. Myka’s hand automatically went to her hip even though there was nothing to grab but damp silk.

“Always so by the book…” Myka was so struck by the predatory smile and startlingly familiar brown eyes it took her a moment to notice the tight black cat suit and cape. Batwoman in the flesh, or bulletproof spandex. Myka gulped. “Which is why I was so surprised to see you come running after me.”

Batwoman slinked purposefully up to stop a scant few inches away. It was clear she didn’t view Myka as a threat and truthfully at the moment she wasn’t. She may be the best sharp shooter in her precinct but she’d read enough in the police reports about the masked woman’s kenpo skills not to try anything. She held her ground though, more out of pride and stubbornness than anything else.

“You know you’re not really helping. You clean up a few messes but you create so many more with your methods.” Perhaps it was idiotic to be arguing with a masked woman with more kills under her belt than most of her precinct put together, but Myka couldn’t ignore the look in the woman’s eyes. Yes there was rage, fervor, suspicion: everything she expected to see in a vigilante…but also amusement, brilliance, and a sliver of reason. 

There was also lust burning deep mahogany into blackened coal, but Myka was actively ignoring that as it reminded her of hardened nipples pressing uncomfortably against wet silk. She squirmed minutely and watched batwoman’s smile widen, “Breaking a number of regulations tonight aren’t we? How does it feel? Doing what you think is right regardless of rules or orders?”

Dark eyes roamed languidly down her frame and Myka cursed the heat flooding her cheeks despite the rain and chilled night air, “Exhilarating isn’t it?” It was; oh it was for so many reasons that Myka dare not voice.

A hand rose to her cheek, surprisingly soft fingertips brushing along her jaw. Every muscle in her body protested as she allowed the gesture. Myka’s voice surprised her, the words tumbling out without forethought or control, “What happened to you? To make you this way?”

The hand twitched, dark eyes hardened before clearing so quickly Myka would have missed it if she weren’t so very close. The laugh sounded more forced than the first and the woman backed away, breaking the strange tension that hung in the air between them.

“Far from first date material darling, we hardly know one another yet.” The promise in the words should have spurred alarm or at least exasperation at the audacity. She would later claim either of these if asked even to herself, anything but looking away as clichéd butterflies caused havoc in her gut-weaving cocoons, preparing to remerge later when the woman would undoubtedly cross her mind…most likely before bed when her defenses for such things were at their weakest.

Looking up there was nothing but shadows again, but Detective Bering had a suspicion that her shadows were about to get far less empty. And she was strangely okay with that, even if she wasn’t ready to admit why just yet.


	2. LOTR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This AU is based off of the romance between Eowyn and Faramir. It was pretty popular so I wrote a sequel. Here are both parts.

Myka traced white etchings along the white stone arches lining the courtyard just outside of the recovery room. Her side still burned with icy vengeance, but she’d live. Unlike the King. Myka had been under the thumb of her uncle the king since she was a small child. He raised her, taught her how to be a proper Rohanian shield maiden, and looked the other way when she sought tutorship with a sword. She had wished to please him, but she had wanted her freedom more. She’d flown her cage to come fight in Gondor, and now she had no reason to return. The king was dead; the king’s son was dead. Rohan was nothing more than an empty hall and the smell of horses to her now.

She could feel the eyes on her back as she regarded the battlefield down below. Word had spread, the shield maiden of Rohan that killed the witch king and its great mount. Myka did not know why, but even with the bittersweet gratitude of the King’s dying breath she had predicted censorship. She had strayed from her role, only, here it appeared a woman was could strive for more than domesticity. Her tread was slow, but she had wandered the great white streets, seen shops owned by women, seen little girls and boys dueling together over the debris. But it was her that truly caught Myka’s eye.

Mounted and garbed in worn but still shining armor bearing the crest of Gondor, a soldier, a woman. Myka’s breath caught in her throat. She was so very beautiful. A river of dark locks dancing free in the evening air, proud cheekbones, a strong jaw and dark obsidian eyes. Eyes that found her just before she passed, leading a small number of men behind her.

Myka sighed, wondering when the smell of burning flesh would finally abate. She did not hear the clank of armor behind her, she had been trying to tune out the whispers.

"Lady Myka." She swerved suddenly to face the voice, it was her. The woman soldier of Gondor. She had removed her chest plate, gauntlets and bracers, to reveal a light blue top under a tan hide vest, “I am Lady Helena Wells, daughter of the last Stewart of Gondor. To make the acquaintance of the beautiful shield maiden that slew the witch king is a great honor. ” She gave a bow rather than the traditional curtsy and Myka smiled widely at the move. She took the offered hand and gasped in the contrast of calloused palms and the soft lips pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"The pleasure is mine. I have never met a female soldier before. Only men can fly the banners of Rohan."

Lady Helena grinned before leaning in as if to bestow a secret, “Lady Myka, I do believe you saw a female soldier as you rose every morning. For I am most assuredly regarding one now. I do not know well the returned King, but his respect for the  _gentler sex_ ,” her eyes twinkled with thinly veiled amusement, “proceeds him. If you could be convinced to stay a while, Gondor would proudly take in the honorable shield maiden of Rohan.” Lady Helena smirked slightly as her eyes trailed down Myka’s bandaged form and unconventional breeches, “And forgive my boldness, but the White tree of Minas Tirith would look stunning upon your breast.” Myka blushed, the smell of rotting flesh replaced with sandalwood and apples, the sounds of curious onlookers lost to a lilting voice and unfettered laughter. Yes. Myka could see herself staying here, this place, this woman, it felt like freedom at last.

~.~ (Sequel) ~.~

Myka moves in figure eights and sweeping arcs. Her braid spins behind her back as she turns, her left smashing into an orc’s nose as her right slices through air and then flesh. Two bodies fall, but she’s already moving on down the broken stone courtyard towards the heart of Osgilliath.  

It’s more like a hunt than a battle now, tracking Sauron’s old pets. Even with the men of Rohan and Gondor riding together the beasts spread and murder like a plague. King Aragorn had been the one to first call a village overrun by orcs ‘Dark Ground.” And today they’d be cleansing this river port with the beasts’ blackened blood. 

There’s a slight rustling of rock and Myka just has time to raise her blade as she is thrown against the wall of a crumbling Apothecary. She groans out as she tries to push off her attacker, but he is large even for an Uruk-hai and his seven-foot frame feels harder than the stone at her back. The Uruk-hai’s bloodied sword is pressing just scant inches above Myka’s neck and it is only by the blessing of Myka’s own steel and strength that her head remains attached. Her bracers take most of the pain as she manages to elbow him, knocking his helmet askew. Monopolizing on his distraction she ducks and crawls between his legs. He turns in time to see her blade kiss his throat.

She’s spinning again, listening between heartbeats. The orc charging for her is tattered, his armour gone and his face contorted in sightless rage. But he is tired, has spent too long running from their forces. Myka crouches down, pulling a dagger from her boot and sends it into his jugular. The courtyard is momentarily silent. Pebbles trickle down to her left, and it’s instinct and the raised hairs on her arms that have her diving out of the way just before the violent waterfall of rock and ash that follow.

She sheaths her sword, squinting up against the sun’s glare. There’s a great hulking form storming about in the bell tower, angry and desperate it launches large pieces of debris at her as it tears into the tower walls with its fists. It bellows and Myka knows the sound, a troll. She smiles as she pulls a bow from her back and an arrow from her quiver. Myka tries to account for the slight wind; it’s a good 30-yard shot. She’d never taken out a cave troll before. She thinks back to the story King Aragorn had told her of when the fellowship had fought one deep in the mines of Moria. She adds two more arrows-a trick the Elf Prince taught her-and aims for the eyes.

There is a low whine, a heavy thump and the earth shakes.  She pivots and the air resounds with the clash of swords.

“Meeting by steel again my Lady.” Myka’s face is pressed tight behind her sword as she puts her weight forward and Lady Helena does the same, close enough for Myka to see the silver of her blade glinting in her dark eyes. Myka is breathing hard, her arms stressing to hold their bind, 

“Must you sneak up on me on Dark Ground?” Her voice comes out as a growl, more out of strain than frustration but Helena doesn’t need to know that. 

Helena’s eyes darken, one pale finger rising beneath their armed embrace to trace the roots of the tree etched into her breastplate. She was the one that had insisted Myka be fitted for _‘proper armour’_  rather than the ‘ _bits of scrap metal she’d stolen of a drunk soldier_.’ Myka watches Helena fingers move reverently from root to leaf, wondering if perhaps the woman didn’t just enjoy seeing Myka bear her Sigil. 

“Just keeping you sharp,” she cocks one dark eyebrow as she grins, “I would have thought you’d recognize my tread my now,” her grin is playful but challenging, “unless you think I walk like an orc.”

Myka bites down on her bottom lip as she smirks, “Maybe a warg.” She laughs loud and unfettered as she pushes up sharply, dislodging their blades and spinning away. A hand comes to grip her bracer and her arm is yanked up and back behind her shoulder blades. She lets out a gasp as she’s pulled into a firm body smelling of sweat, blood and a hint of apples. She steels her jaw as Helena’s other arm wraps around her and her sword hand to hold tight against her breastplate.

 A lilting voice teases the shell of her ear, “Is that any way to speak to the Captain of the White Tower?” Myka’s hand remains captured between their bodies as Helena frees her own to move aside her braid, “You know I could have you strung up for your disrespect.” Her words are more promise than threat as soft lips press against the nape of her neck, “You’d look lovely hanging in my bedchamber.” Myka bites back a shiver as she breaks free of Helena’s hold, the sultry timbre of her words far harder to shake than her firm grip.

She leaps onto a large piece of rubble, taking advantage of the position to both gather her wits and overlook what she can of the city. When she turns her gaze back down she finds Helena eying her intently. It’s ridiculous. She should be looking for other threats

-she can just barely hear the faint clank of armour and the far off squealing of skewered goblin-

but the soft evening light filtering through cracked columns and sighing archways seems to be encasing them in a bubble. This is their time. They first met at sunset, and around this time Lady Helena has a penchant for seeking her out, be she in a meeting with King Aragorn’s advisors or out on a purge like today.

The horn of Gondor is blown from somewhere in the distance and a thousand cries of victory ring out as fists raise in salute to the dying light. Footsteps fall heavy and fast, no one waiting for their Captain to dismiss them. There is still time to make it to the banquet celebrating Queen Arwen’s pregnancy. Myka has no intention of going; a royal celebration is just an excuse for the nobles to gawk and whisper in their little herds, some of the whispers are innocuous, others can end in murder. That was the way of power even under the rule of a just king like Lord Aragorn.

Merriment wears on, goblets refill and somehow murmurs become whispered shouts…

_“They say she’s gonna take the throne of Rohan instead of Éomer”_

_“I heard she killed the witch king’s fellbeast with her bare hands.”_

_“My cousin’s lady maid says she saw her turn a man to stone just by looking at him”_

Part of her is a little amused by the gossip surrounding her, it is no wonder some of the noblewomen-and men-are afraid to meet her eye. She likes that they keep their distance; she doesn’t want any part of their circles. The noblemen spin webs for money and control with no real understanding of the forces they manipulate or the blood they spill. The noblewomen range from softened corners and blank pages to spiders with cunning and ambition far outshining their unsuspecting husbands.  The soldiers and citizens from the lower tiers of the city are better, some still stare but she is more revered for being an impressive warrior, and woman, than set apart as some anomaly or threat.

Helena reaches up and Myka clasps her forearm, allowing herself to be pulled back to the ground. A palm cradles her cheek, “You’ve been cut.” 

Myka grins, gesturing to the giant mass of bone and flesh a few yards away, “falling debris.” 

Helena smirks, seeing the pride behind her eyes although it is not in her nature to boast, “I thought I felt the earth move-but then it so often seems to when I’m in your presence.” It should be a trite line, but the honesty shining in her eyes is brighter than the sunlight glinting off her amour and across her inky locks as tremulous fingers run through their depths…and Myka cannot help but be moved by the vision of her. 

They both feel it: that pull. It sings in the air between them as they practice their footwork along the ceiling rafters in the barracks. It sends tingles down her spine and needles into her nerves when they sit shoulder to shoulder to watch the sun set from the bow of the great city’s summit.

It’s laced in teasing words and lingering touches. It forces her heart to beat a new rhythm, and sometimes Myka yearns to press her ear to Helena’s chest to ascertain if mayhap they thrum in sync. But she does not; as a shield maiden of Rohan, she knows well how to live in wanting. 

“You should come to the banquet tonight.” Myka’s nose scrunches as she scowls. That is the last thing Myka wants to do and Helena well knows it. Myka doesn’t know why Helena enjoys it. They speak just as harshly of her as they do Myka, whispers of her mad father, of her ‘more noble’ brother that died for the fellowship, of her silver tongue and unforgiving attitude. Helena says she enjoys the backstabbing, the drama; Myka sometimes wonders if a hint of madness may indeed run in her veins.

The hand is soft and warm at her cheek, the sun now set enough for the evening’s chill to begin licking at their exposed skin. It’s Myka who finally breaks eye contact. She presses her forehead to Helena’s cheek, nose fitting in below Helena’s jaw. A curl is tucked behind her ear, “You’ll get to see me in a gown.” Helena moves to press a lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth, catching quite a bit of her plump bottom lip. She steps back, letting her fingers run down Myka’s arm as she moves past and away from her.

Myka watches her leave, wondering if taking instead of wanting would work in her favour as well as it did the last time. Helena turns her head to wink at her just before rounding the corner, and Myka decides it’s too late, perhaps she’ll tumble and shatter upon the ground or perhaps she’ll find purchase in Helena’s arms…but regardless she’s already put all her weight behind her swing, and she’s going to fall.


	3. Firefly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myka sacrifices her career as a doctor to save her little sister, Claudia, from the Academy. While breaking her out she stumbles upon a woman. There’s just something about her, and so Myka takes them both. 
> 
> I loved writing this one, so I might return to it at some time down the line.

 

Claudia is first to board the ship, distractedly struggling with a tasty frozen globe hanging from a stick, “My food is problamatic.”

Pete and Artie are waiting in the cargo bay. Artie’s glaring at them all, angry at them for staying in the village for supper rather than coming immediately back with their load. Pete just looks desperate to either get off the ship and explore or pilot them the hell outta here,  "Aww I want an ice planet! Why did the cookoo twins get to go instead of me?"

Helena smirks at his childish pout, “Because darling, it’s a planet where women rule,” she pauses because sometimes the man is a bit thick, “completely.”  

Claudia giggles, flittering around like a freshly spun top.  ”You shoulda seen them Pete. They walked the men on leashes.”

Pete scrunches up his face and shudders, “shiny.” Artie whips him up the back of the head and points at the boxes the girls had brought on board,”bái chī.”

Myka trails in last, only putting away her gun as the door slid shut behind her. She’s adjusted well out here for a well-off doctor from an alliance settlement. Helena’s watched her learn to shoot, watched that inner strength begin to show physically… she nicely filled out those tight tan breeches now. Her clothes are worn but still far too clean-her whole look too orderly- not to stand out here in the black. Helena understands her need to cling to the order she remembers, even though Helena lost all sense of order long ago in a padded room and a needle to the brain.

Myka smiles and looks up to meet her gaze, "You fancy sharing a wash? I’ve still got honey in odd places. I swear, this planet has the weirdest bartering ritual." When Myka looks at her like this: face alight, eyes glowing with affection, Helena doesn’t feel like a crazy woman on the run from the Alliance. Myka smiles and offers an arm that is immediately, reverently, taken. When Myka touches her…Helena cannot help but wonder if perhaps Myka is her order now. 


	4. Game Of Thrones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a small story prior to this one about how Dany and Arya met, I may upload it separately under the proper category if interest is expressed.

The day had been filled with scorched earth and spilled blood; the colours of House Targaryen had painted itself in sweeping strokes across the landscape. But dusk was encroaching and the sky had been drained of all colours save gray and white. Her colours. House Stark. Arya wiped her blood and dirt caked hands against her trousers, holding them up to warm against the fire. The blood wasn’t hers, but it was her fault.

Daenerys stepped out of a tent a few campfires away and made her way over to her. She’d spent most of the evening planning the next day’s attack. King’s Landing loomed to the west, numerous towers still burning from dragon fire. They’d take the city tomorrow, but Arya didn’t feel the satisfaction she’d expected; her eyes were again drawn to the stained red in the lines of her palm, burrowed under her nails.

“I can have one of my men take you to the river to clean if you wish.” Arya was surprised as the Targaryen heir sat beside her on the scorched trunk of a fallen tree. Her face was clean but her hair was wild from a day riding on the back of Drogon.

“Will she be alright?”  Dany’s gaze turned eastward to the two figures that lay separate from the others under a large redwood. Arya’s eyes followed suit, she’d been avoiding looking their way. The intimacy of it twisted something painfully sharp in her gut.

A curly haired woman lay prone on the grass. There was another woman, ethereally pale with raven hair, holding the wounded woman in her arms. The woman’s lips were moving imperceptivity, and if Arya strained to listen she could just make out the woman’s hypnotic, wordless melody over the crackle of campfires and the laughter of soldiers celebrating another day of life.

_The day broke with the sound of cannon fire. Armor and spears rustled and drums echoed in the wood as King Joffrey led the first attack. It was a bold move, and despite their superior numbers, they were not prepared for it. Arya knew Dany had intended to keep her out of the battle, but there was no hope of that now. She was jumping over falling bodies and diving under horses’ legs, and twice she felt an arrow’s fletching brush across her skin before she managed to find a shred of cover._

_It was foolish of her, so very stupid, but when she heard the roar of the dragons she just had to take a look. Drogon, half hidden in the fiery colours of sunrise rained death upon a whole row of soldiers all at once. Rhaegal and Viserion weaved a tapestry of fire onto the men manning the catapults below. But it was the sight of the woman on Viserion’s back that shocked Arya._

_She had caught sight of the white haired Targaryen heir on Drogon’s back, but as far as she’d known Dany was the only one the dragons would let mount them. But there was an unmistakable figure astride the golden beast, she squinted but could only make out chalk white skin and hair darker than the smoke already filling the morning air._

_“GET DOWN!” And her vision was soaked in crimson._

“I do not know,” Arya started at the woman’s voice, caught up her own remembrance, “but if she can be mended Ser Helena will see it done.” Arya frowned, biting her lip as the questions nipped at the back of her teeth, begging to be set loose.

Daenerys had been kind and forthcoming with her thus far, but Arya had learned not to blindly trust anyone, especially those in power, with so many opposing motives to juggle. Yet the curiosity in her would not be denied and the words tumbled forth from her lips,

“Who is she? I have never heard of a woman with her title, nor did I know anyone but you could ride your dragons.”

Dany smiled and a knot in Arya loosened, “Ser Helena has served the House Targaryen for a great many years,” there was a secret dancing behind the blonde woman’s grin and the curiosity in Arya multiplied. “It was she who taught me to ride them just as she had done before.” 

Arya’s brow furrowed in confusion, “But I don’t understand, I thought your dragons were the first born in over a hundred years.”

Dany nodded as she tore off a bit of the trunk they sat on and threw it into the hungry fire, “She fought for Daeron II. He was a good ruler but no warrior nor was his son and hand. Although his son, Baelor, received the credit, it was Ser Helena that led the armies and dragons to victory in the Blackfyre Rebellion.” 

Arya frowned, her childhood lessons and studies in the House Targaryen running through her mind, “But Daeron II must have been your-” 

“Great, great, great grandfather.” Dany smirked and nodded as understanding flooded Arya’s face, “yes.”

Her eyes were again drawn to the woman and her companion under the towering redwood, so pale and almost inhumanly beautiful, “Is she human?”

She was saddened to see the smile fall from Dany’s face, it had been a beautiful and rare sight in the days they had journeyed together. There was a weight Arya did not understand to the look Dany sent the couple now, “Yes. She is human, altogether too human.”

Suddenly excitement churned within Arya as she was struck with a thought, “She is immortal then, and her companion too?” For surely the intimacy Arya felt between them was born of lifetimes together. She wished Sansa was there, the girl was a hopeless romantic and Arya knew she’d love to hear about the two warrior women and their love that spanned the ages.

But Daenerys was shaking her head; her gaze turned to the fire, her hand caressing the nearest flames idly.

Arya jumped as she heard a soft, lilting voice over her shoulder,  “Just me I’m afraid, and while time cannot touch me, a sword or spear can slay me as easily as any man.”

“Will Lady Myka be alright?” Dany’s voice was soft and compassionate; Ser Helena was clearly kin in every right but blood.

The woman was even more beautiful up close, sharp features and even sharper brown eyes, eyes that were focused solely on her even as she addressed the Targaryen heir, “I’ve done all I can; the night will tell. I do not believe we have been formally introduced; I am Ser Helena of the free city of Volantis. If you’ll come with me I believe we could both do with a little cleaning up and then there is someone very interested in meeting you.”

“Arya Stark.” She could see Dany’s brow rise out of the corner of her eye, it was the first time she revealed her house name…even though she knew Daenerys was well aware she was of noble descent. It felt wrong though, lying to the woman whose lover may have well given her life for her. Arya rose to her feet as she saw Dany nod her approval and she followed after Ser Helena.

The raven haired warrior slowed and waited until Arya’s tread fell in step with her own, sending a small smile her way as they meandered between campfires surrounded by soldiers. Nerves twisted inside her as guilt wreaked havoc upon her heart. Why was she being so kind?

When they reached the river Arya watched frozen as Ser Helena began to remove her bracers and then her breastplate, sheet by sheet the armor fell to the ground until all that was left was a thin woman in a pale cotton shift. Ser Helena met her gaze and offered a hand, one that was unconsciously taken, there was something familiar about her, almost maternal. It made Arya yearn for her own mother, in a way she had not felt for some time.

“It is alright,” she took a wet cloth and began to wipe the caked dirt and blood from Arya’s hands, “if Lady Myka does not last the night it will not be your fault.” Arya tried to pull her hands away, her head shaking vigorously in disagreement. It was her fault. She had been so stupid; she had just wanted to see the dragons fight.

But Ser Helena held tight, “This day was always going to come. My curse is not immortality darling but inevitability. A whole other beast altogether and far more vicious. And if she is to lose her life this night, I can think of no better way than in the protection of a child.” Her hands were released, now clean even if the rest of her still felt tainted.

“I don’t understand.”

Ser Helena smiled, small and tired but brimming with warmth, with love, “No, I suspect you don’t, but I hope someday you will. Now hurry along, Myka will be most displeased if we keep her waiting.”


	5. Ancient Rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helena finds herself falling for her slave girl who is so much more than meets the eye.
> 
> Trigger warning, no actual assault but some unwanted touching by an OC, Helena puts a stop to it.

Helena eyed the scene with tender amusement, watching how the papers cut the sunlight  as they tumbled from fumbling fingers, taking in the glow of her complexion under the fading light. Even after these many months with Helena, her skin was still honeyed from the sun, a sign of her life before her trek across the desert from her homeland to Rome. Before her time under the house of her Husband.

Myka, an old hebrew name, Helena liked the way it felt on her tongue. Myka had arrived to her husband’s home relatively unscarred-underfed and weary but-protected by the gold ensured by her virginity. Helena had been running her Husband’s brothels since he went away to war 4 years ago. Ran away would be more apt- away from her, away from the biting memory of their child. Everything was done in his name, but Helena was the one buying the slaves, entertaining the politicians, charming war leaders. 

When this thin slave with bright green eyes arrived one evening she’d had every intention of sending her down to the lower levels and all the depravity that waited for her there. She’d done it to so many others. She was beautiful, would fetch a good price. But there was something in her eyes.

She approached with no sense of propriety, shackled but proud and close enough for Helena to smell the sweat and the blood. There was defiance yes, but intelligence too, a scrutiny to her gaze that made Helena feel exposed, as if she were the one nearly bare to the evening air in tattered bits of cloth. It wasn’t compassion that saved the slave that night, it was intrigue…it had simply been so long since anything had caught Helena’s interest, had elicited a real reaction from her. And she could always do with a new hand servant.

It turned out she was fluent in Helena’s tongue, although it took two months before Helena got any more than a  _Yes, Domina_ or sometimes after another failed evening of chores and attempts to coax something out of the girl  _Goodnight Domina._ She knew she could demand the answers she sought, could beat it out of her, could threaten her, and it had occured to her on occasion when her frustration overtook her…Helena never had cared much for not getting her way…at first she hesitating in fear that provokation would ruin that untainted innocence that so captivated her…and later,

            later she found the idea… distasteful. And then she didn’t think on it at all.

It was the third month that she first heard Myka laugh: richer than the most prized spirits and deep in a way that awakened something base in Helena. It was the first time she considered taking the girl, it wouldn’t be the last time. It was the forth month that Helena caught Myka in her office reading a text on the laws of the empire. In exchange for teaching her about the ways of Rome, Myka taught Helena her language. It was a foolish bargain, she had no need for the knowledge…but she loved listening to the way the words crested and broke on Myka’s tongue.

It was the fifth month that a notable politician got his eye on Myka. During one of her infamous events, Helena walked in on him unwrapping the straps of Myka’s dress.

_"I would have thought you would stop him. Why didn’t you?"_

_"How did I know it was not by your will that he was there at all?" her tone wasn’t accusing, it was suspiciously void, closed down, "It is not a slave’s place to question the state of things."_

_"Since when have you stayed in your place?" her tone was light but turned sombre at her next words, "But no. In the future if this should ever-" here she was fumbling over her words like a young maiden. She grabbed one of Myka’s hands with both of her own, pleasantly surprised when she did not move away, "not you. Never you."_

She made Myka officially off limits after that night. It was safer for Myka, it was dangerous for them both when her husband returned. But Helena had eventually admitted to herself that she needed this slave girl with the knowing eyes and the lopsided smile. Sometimes it was only her presence that allowed Helena to feel…human. Simply watching the girl bend over to pick up various papers off the floor, the sun lighting streaks of gold in her curly locks, the billowing of her gown as she moved, the persistance with which she gnawed on her bottom lip as she focused on her task.

Myka’s warm eyes ensnared hers, a small quirk of her lips and Helena could not control her grin. She tried not to be terrified by the feeling of peace settling in her heart. The warmth and tingling in her fingertips.

It would never do to fall in love with one’s slave. It would not do at all. It may already be too late.


	6. High School AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: There's some self-harm in this fic, but it's handled respectfully and the story has a fluffy ending.

Myka’s vision blurs as she shoves thin trembling fingers into chestnut curls and pulls, hard. Her school uniform feels tight: the small turquoise stall closing in around her. Laughter from the hall echoes in the otherwise unoccupied bathroom. Blunt nails dig into her scalp as the first tears fall. She’s rocking on the toilet lid, conflicted eyes darting to her backpack and then to her ink legacy.

  _Myka Bering? I think you mean Myka Boring_

That’s it. No other reference, addendum, not worthy of a listing in the appendix. Not worthy of her father’s shop or of his love. Not worthy of the space she takes: her very body and breath. It’s a mantra that only grows louder the more she tries to drown it out. Her eyes dart back to her backpack, one knee beginning to bounce as her aggravation mounts.

Her eyes slide shut. She’s repulsed with herself, yet relieved to put the struggle aside for now. The decision made, Myka calms, her vision is still blurred with tears and her nose is beginning to run, but she can almost breathe again. She rolls up crisp white cotton sleeves with practiced ease. Myka’s skin is flushed but the stainless steel refuses to warm in her grasp, refuses to give anything. It is she who always caves under its pressure, seeking the inexplicable control found in yielding. 

Myka watches absently as a crimson puddle begins to pool between her converse sneakers. She considers stemming the flow if only to prevent the inevitable moment the blood grows wide enough to mock her with her own reflection. The door to the bathroom swings open and Myka drops her backpack softly in front of the spill.

 A pair of boots lingers outside her stall and Myka finds herself holding her breath. She can taste the iron in the air, she only hopes her company does not. She is not so fortunate. The door swings open-stupid cheap stall doors-and a beautiful girl with pitch black hair and striking brown eyes stumbles in. 

“I’m sorry I just had to-“ the girl pauses, and Myka knows what she must look like, she still hasn’t even attempted to stem the slow but steady river of red, “oh darling.” But the girl isn’t yelling or judging her, instead she falls to her knees and begins pulling toilet paper off the roll and wrapping it around her wrist.

Myka’s mouth opens as she begins to pull her arm away, “I…” 

“Hush.” Her voice is firm, but there’s the slightest quirk to her lips and Myka finds her fight leaving her, deflating under the gentle pressure, yielding yet again…although this girl is far more beautiful than her razor blade. She recognizes her, an upper classmen, popular by association and achievement more than from spotlight seeking. She’s smart too; Myka came in second in a citywide engineering competition…Helena came in first.

Myka’s eyes fall to the splattering of freckles visible along her collarbone and the idea of yielding to her in other ways flitters through her mind. Her eyes widen as her skin becomes hot and she squirms uncomfortably on top of the half broken toilet seat lid. These kinds of musings have been happening more often of late, but never has one struck her so strongly or during a time like this, exposed and hurting.

As if noticing her unease Helena releases her hold on Myka’s arm. She rolls up the sleeves of her uniform shirt, and Myka can’t help the gasp that escapes her. Crisscrossed perversions of tic-tac-toe and jagged markers of past pain. They span years, Myka can tell as she takes in faded almost invisible lines and the deeper red ones still covered with scar tissue. The girl smiles, slightly hesitant and more than a little troubled but there’s determination in her gaze and Myka finds herself leaning closer as Helena traces her finger along one of the most healed marks,

“My father told me the Wells’ were bankers and politicians, and I was not to waste my  _fine pedigree_  on writing stories,” she shakes her head and let out a deep sigh, “I was 12.” Helena doesn’t meet her gaze, instead moving along to another healed line, “A few months later my father grounded me for showing up my brother in the spelling bee.” Her eyes go hard as she spits out the next words, “ _Really Helena, it would have looked better for my colleagues if you’d just have let Charles win…”_

Myka bites her lip for a moment, she appreciates what the girl is doing, but she’s never been good at opening up, “I don’t-I’m not-“ 

“Shh.” Those warm hands are on her again, they slowly unwrap the toilet paper and dab away the remaining blood. She holds both of Myka’s wrists side by side…baring every reminder of her weakness and suffering. Slowly each wrist is raised to receive a gentle kiss and something in Myka churns deliciously at the touch.

Myka’s hands somehow find their way around Helena’s shoulders as the girl leans forward with a wad of toilet paper, “Let’s see what you look like under the caked salt shall we?” She smiles brightly, far brighter than the situation-than the confessions those full lips just uttered-should allow, “I knew it, beautiful.”

Myka’s head falls to allow a curtain of hair to obscure her blush. After a moment she gestures half-heartedly at the literal ‘writing on the wall.’ Helena’s reaction is the least one Myka expected, she smirks, 

“Well, personally I don’t put much stake in gossip. I’d like to decide how interesting you are on my own,” she rises to her feet and offers Myka a hand, “I’m an excellent judge of character and I suspect,” she wiggles her eyebrows in a distractingly charming manner,  ”I won’t be disappointed.” Myka doesn’t hide her blush this time, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she takes hold. Finding that perhaps there are other ways to breathe again.


	7. Computer Code and Kitten Heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a pic-fic series I've been doing on Tumblr. Myka is a programmer; Helena is an exec and the daughter of Myka's boss...or rather her boss's boss.
> 
> I'll probably be adding more to this AU at some point. Here's the Prologue and Parts 1 and 2. I'm afraid I don't know who to credit with the original caps as they were found on google images.

**Prologue**

Leather and pearls. God this woman was a complex creature, and the programmer in Myka wanted pick apart each facet and paradox, to lay them out on her desk and rearrange them until she understood, until Helena’s story could be discerned from the chaos. That was her job, she only wished it worked as well on people as it did strings of code.

Helena was watching her, fingers tracing a line along the lip of her mug. Myka took a deep gulp of her own drink if only to avoid the desire to fidget under the intent gaze; she always enjoyed the coffee during her meetings with Helena. The woman’s expresso machine was far superior to than the sadistic clearance aisle machine on her floor, always ended up stale at best and burned at worst.

The aroma was intoxicating to her overworked senses so she kept the mug close, holding eye contact with Helena over the rim. She wasn’t sure if it was to avoid showing weakness to the CEO’s daughter or because she just couldn’t stop wondering what she was seeing in the woman’s eyes. It had not escaped her that Helena had been arranging to spend more and more time with her: meetings, special assignments, the very fact that a top exec would sink down to where the programmers dwelled spoke to the fact that Helena had been seeking her out. She just didn’t know why.

Myka removed her jacket, watching as Helena’s eyes followed the movement before dipping to the faint swell of breasts bared by her top. But that couldn’t be why… Myka knew Helena was attracted her. Always leaning in close to look at the screen over her shoulder, enveloping Myka in embrace of sandalwood and vanilla, fingers sketching blueprints along her spine…and that damn knowing grin as she’d finally step back. 

Myka had left more than one late night meeting to crawl between her sheets and seek release, biting her name back as she came, because drawing a little blood was far better than admitting this…this thing that could never be. She was a mid-level programmer; Helena was a millionaire’s daughter and top executive…with a father that was not shy about his aspirations for his daughter.

Pillar of society

        Strategic marriage with a well bred man

                  And other aspirations that certainly didn’t include her.

They’d finished discussing the project almost ten minutes ago but continued to linger in Helena’s office, both unwilling to end the evening quite yet. Myka should have been able to start a conversation, she had a million questions and a strong desire to seek out every last answer. But all the rest were drowned out by two, a mantra that matched the quickened rhythm of her heart

 _"What do you want from me?"_  And,

_"May I kiss you?"_

Conflicting messages, that left her muddled and waiting. A small voice in her head hoped the answer to the first was held in the second; a louder voice told her to get a grip. Helena had always lead their strange dance before, only, looking at her now Myka got the impression that it was Helena  that was now waiting for her.

"Helena?" 

The woman in question cocked an eyebrow but did not respond, as they’d been watching each other for the past quarter hour Myka clearly had her attention.

"Why have I been signaled out for all these special assignments," she caught the look in Helena’s eyes and hastened to continue, "not that I’m not appreciative of the experience or extra pay but…" her hand rubbed awkwardly at the back of her neck, "I just want to know why." There. That was safe.

"You are an excellent programer." Helena’s lips curled as she spoke, somehow making the word programer sound far more sensual than it had any right to be. Myka took another deep gulp of coffee, the way Helena spoke, the way she was even now looking at her… her intent dipped in the velvet of her voice rather than the meaning of her words.

Myka groaned, “Helena.” Her frustration mounting as the woman proceeded to smirk at her. She could be so infuriating- open then avoidant, direct then coy- and Myka just wanted her more for it, “I don’t understand Helena. Sometimes I think I do but then,” she paused her eyes flitting away from the woman for the first time in what felt like hours, “it doesn’t make sense and…your father…”

She gnawed on her bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth and biting down as if the small flash of pain could overshadow this sickening vulnerability. She avoided looking back at the woman, rod straight in her chair and on a hair trigger, ready to bolt. She didn’t turn back until she heard the woman softly call her name.

The smirk was now gone from Helena’s face, replaced with a softness that seized the heart in her chest, in fact, made every organ in her body seize up if such a thing were possible (probably not…she never got that far in pre-med).

"Myka," She’d always loved how Helena made her name sound, but it had never sounded quite like this, heavy and brimming over with  _something_  Myka (hoped she) was on the cusp of understanding, “Do you know where I received my degrees?”

Myka simply shook her head, more than a little confused by the subject change. 

"Oxford." Helena smiled at her bemused expression, but it was smaller now, wary of the tempest whirling within the younger woman. "My father wanted Cambridge. Small I know, but it was the first time I didn’t allow myself to care about what he wanted." Her eyes twinkled mischievously,  "The first time I went after what I wanted."

Helena approached her slowly, coming to perch on the edge of her desk directly in front of Myka. She placed her mug on the desk, running nervous fingers through inky locks before continuing,

"I yield to him more now because he is my superior, not because he is my father," the harsh bite at his mention was surprising, but then, they’d talked very little about him in their time together, "But this is fleeting, I have such plans Myka. And they’re very much about what I want."

She leaned in, the leather of her skirt moaned and gave under her movement as she pressed forward until all that remained was sandalwood, vanilla, and dark obsidian eyes. One long finger picked up a chestnut lock, pulling it tight before letting it bounce back into shape, repeating the movement a few times, although her eyes were fixed elsewhere, a few inches below the moss green of Myka’s own.

"And do you know what I want now Myka?" But it couldn’t be that easy. Wants were to be tempered by custom, expectations, rules. Where would her programs be without rules, where would her life be without order?

As she rose, sliding her fingers through dark silk, pulling and pressing all at once, and finally tasting, as she opened herself to the first sweep of a tongue along her bottom lip…Myka figured that even her programs had exceptions.

**Part 1**

_(can't include image as this one came from a gifset)_

She was late, god she was late and Myka- the woman who had three alarm clocks in case Morpheus ever sunk his claws in too deep-was never late. But last night she’d finally given in to a dance that had been whisking her around, blurring colour and sound until all that remained was  _her._

It shouldn’t have worked. Myka was the code and elipses, language, puzzles and long nights filled with twizzlers and stale coffee; Helena was the boardroom, sharp tongue, kitten heels and dry martinis in the back of a limo. And at first Myka ignored how the devastatingly attractive woman in the thousand dollar power suit kept popping up at her  out of the way corner office three floors down from the executives at the top.

And at first she ignored the way her skin would burn even through the cotton of her shirt as Helena leaned over her shoulder to study the latest special assignment (and she’d been getting an awful lot of those lately) on her screen. And she ignored the smiles and she ignored the way her stomach clenched at the rare tinkle of melodic laughter and she ignored the way each new insight into the older woman felt just as satisfying as solving an elusive error in one of her programs and she ignored the hand that seized the heart within her chest and threatened to tear it out through her ribs because surely it was the other woman’s already.

She ignored it all until it was much too late and maybe if she had only stopped ignoring it earlier she could have prevented this because, now, she was in love.  And she’s also late.

“ _How do I look?”_ She had to present findings from her research in-oh-47 minutes.

One of the benefits of sleeping with the boss’s daughter (or rather boss’s boss’s daughter) was getting feedback on what to wear to for a meeting with the big wigs.

_“Of course you look delicious darling, but if you wear that skirt I’m going to end up decking my father in the middle of the quarterly shareholder’s meeting.”_

She had absolutely no idea how this was going to work. Myka was code and order with a desk lined with colour coded post-its and Helena had a tendency to scatter that order, sometimes literally, seeing as they’d had sex on that desk the night before, twice. Sleeping with the daughter of the CEO of one of the largest computer software companies in the world, also a prick and your boss’s boss…Myka grinned and blew a loose curl out from her eyes, yes, definitely a bad idea. 

**Part 2**

**  
**

Myka looked radiant as she watched the evening churn to a slow burn of gold and crimson. Helena smudged a bit of charcoal with her thumb, making a valiant but ultimately fruitless effort to capture the lovely bounce of the woman’s curls. She sighed and idly scratched her nose, smearing a streak of black along her cheek. Myka never met Helena’s eye as she took in the sunset over her country estate, but from time to time there was the barest quirk to full pink lips.

Myka’s voice was soft, sliding into the gentle quiet that had enveloped the room rather than breaking it, “I didn’t know you could draw,” Myka’s nose crinkled adorably and Helena briefly considered adding it to her drawing, “So much about you is paradoxical. You’re like a code that shouldn’t run yet somehow exceeds its original functions.”

Helena grinned, she’d never thought she’d take pleasure in being compared to a computer program before Myka. But there were a lot of things that had changed since the young programmar disarmed her every defense with absolutely no conscious effort. Regina would get a kick out of the fact that it took a former hacker to gain access to her heart. “You still expect me to be some software tycoon’s power thirsty heiress.”

Myka bit her lip but met her eye as she answered, “That because half the time you act like one.” Helena grimaced, it was a touchy subject between them, the things she did to keep her father appeased. The programmar had avoided her for a week after she’d bought up a competing corporation and laid off their entire staff. She wasn’t proud of it-she’d been unable to eat all day after her father denied her proposal for severance packages-but she’d do what she had to in order to be in a position to see her plans through. 

Myka frowned, her fingers wringing uncomfortably in her lap, “I’m sorry. I know you hate it. I just wish you would stand up to him more-” she hastened to continue as Helena’s mouth opened to argue, “- I know you try, but Helena,” she sighed, her smile turning almost wistful, “I wish you could see yourself like I see you. For all your ego and charm you can be frighteningly insecure. Like I said, paradoxical.” Helena didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything at all. Myka thankfully seemed okay with that, perhaps even expected it, “So you wanted to be an artist?”

Helena scrutinized Myka’s gaze but saw nothing but warm curiosity. Helena was so used to information being used against her, from backstabbing board rooms to gold digging con artists. It was hard to believe someone just wanted to  _know_ her. 

“No. I wanted to be an engineer  An inventor. Any skill I have in the fine arts is from sketching blueprints and designs.” Her eyes glazed over as she imagined pressing the woman’s lithe, bare frame against cold glass…tying her hands over her head with the silk belt of her dress and making a canvas of her skin. Kissing bruises along the column of her throat, gouging red trails along the arch of her back and up her inner thighs, and everywhere streaks of black left from ashen fingertips. “I can honestly say darling that you make for a far more captivating subject.” She watched intently as pale skin flushed from her cheeks all the way down the cleavage of her silk wrap dress. Helena was keenly aware there was nothing beneath it.

She shifted in her seat, pleased to find Myka’s eyes following the movement as the tails of her pale blue men’s dress shirt bunched across her upper thighs. The colour of the sunset was fading from passionate hues that bled into the landscape to pastels of pale yellow and pink. Myka’s placement at the window to her study incited a pang of yearning. She looked like she fit, belonged…like a missing bookend or white wine with fish curry.

And the dangerous thing was how much Helena wanted her to stay, craved to keep the young programmar at her side: that lopsided grin, that tittering laugh, those intelligent, vulnerable eyes…the woman was her heroin. Helena frowned. And that was the problem. Helena could easily fall for the woman, she feared that ship may have indeed already set sail.

Myka had asked- in that curious but non invasive way of hers- what the plans were that she’d referred to on the first night they’d gotten together. Helena would deftly change the subject and Myka would indulge her. Helena had knocked over some well placed dominos in various companies and governments around the globe. It wouldn’t do to have Myka by her side with the target she would soon have tattooed across her back. 

Helena started as she felt warm arms wrapping around her, she looked up, wondering how long she’d been staring into space rather than at the brunette. Knowing fingers kneaded into her shoulders and neck and Helena let out a low groan of appreciation. Tomorrow the weekend would be over and they’d be returning to the city and the jobs and secrets that waited for them. 

A warm breath flittered across her cheek as Myka leaned over her shoulder to take in her work, “It’s lovely.” 

Helena smiled softly, taking one of the hands over her shoulder into her own, relishing her touch and presence while she could, “Yes, you are.”

She didn’t feel like a paradox…just conflicted.


	8. Another Game of Thrones AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relationship is based very loosely on Sansa and Shae: Myka is to marry King Joffrey and Helena is her lady’s maid. Myka is 15; Helena, 19. For a prompt by lastminutegenius

Helena’s fingers follow the wake of the brush, slipping easily through tamed silk. It was the first thing the Queen had ordered upon Myka’s arrival to King’s Landing, but Helena misses the curls. She misses the way they bounced and framed the girl’s face back when she had first seen her, so very wide-eyed, almost tragically innocent. Helena’s eyes dart up and catch the tightened jaw in the reflection of the mirror, the conflicted eyes only half watching the movement of Helena’s fingers. 

She’d never valued innocence, a hazardous affliction to bear in this city. And yet Helena suspects she misses that innocence most of all.  Before she’d watched as piece-by-piece that lightness was slowly ripped away, had watched the girl bend under the weight of the cruel, sometimes covetous gazes of the nobles. Before she’d been offered up like a lamb to the slaughter before a sadistic and useless boy king. Before Myka had watched her father’s head severed from his shoulders to a roar of applause. And yet, she refuses to break.

And in spite of herself, Helena began to care. It had snuck up on her, like a phantom in the night, quite without her permission. It is that damning feeling that loosens her tongue enough to ask, “What troubles you?”

Myka startles at the question, seeming to have forgotten she is there despite having been watching her reflection. Myka’s eyes find hers in the mirror, their gossamer green at once soothing and unsettling. There is no affront, no suspicion, just this contrary vulnerability wrapped in iron strength and Helena’s fingers tighten unconsciously in dark locks. 

“They hate me, the people of this city, they think I have some power, some freedom they do not,” Myka’s gaze turns to the westward window. The sun is setting in the harbor, and Helena finds herself eying the way crimson and gold play across the smooth canvas of her throat for a moment too long. Myka scoffs, a haughty utterance on anyone else, but as the sound catches and is ripped along the back of her throat, it falls just shy of heartrending to Helena’s ears, “It is a joke. I have no power.” 

Helena makes a gentle tsking noise, dropping the brush onto the vanity and placing her palms on each of the girl’s shoulders, a dangerous familiarity, but then, Helena has never been terribly judicious. “There are many forms of power in this world,” her grip tightens, nails digging into the silk of the girl’s nightdress, “You are far from powerless,” She takes in the doubtful furrow of Myka’s brow before continuing, “Most markedly, there is the matter of your name.” 

“The name of a traitor.” The words are biting, making clear the girl’s feelings on her father’s fall from grace. Part of Helena wants to tell her to rein in her distaste, lest the wrong sort of people hear, but a larger part of her relishes even covets that defiance.

 She tries another tact, “Is it love for which the king marries you?” 

Myka snorts in response, and the side of Helena’s mouth quirks slightly at the grace of the girl even born in such an inelegant sound, “Your name is one of the oldest in the seven kingdoms. The house Bering has brought many men to their knees both in defeat and allegiance. Like the magic words of old, names can carry power.”

Helena’s fingers have begun to wander, lightly tracing senseless patterns along the silk of Myka’s shoulders and upper back, drifting ever closer to the temptation of warm, bared skin before edging away. But it is not that but the mesmeric weight of their locked eyes in the mirror that makes Helena’s skin prickle with awareness, with a wretched wanting that has only grown in the course of the last few months, “There is also your intelligence, often overlooked, especially in a woman,” Helena speaks from experience now, and it shows as Myka’s brow raises in consideration, “but that is why it is especially potent. It will do you well to be underestimated at times.”

Helena measures her next words, rolling them along the edge of her teeth before reluctantly letting them pass her lips, “And then there is the matter of the warmth between your thighs,” The line of Helena’s jaw hardens, more perturbed than she has any right to be. For while Helena had grown up quite adept at deception, she’d never been very good at self-delusion. She knows it is more than concern that churns and festers deep in her gut. 

Myka, oblivious, lovely Myka, blushes. Her eyes shift uneasily to her feet, “I have bled. Soon I will wed the king, and I will bear him a son,” wide imploring eyes find Helena’s own, and she is struck by how very young she looks in this moment. Perhaps looking her age for the first time since reaching King’s Landing all those months ago, “Then will I be safe?”

Helena wants to lie, wants to soothe these fears, fears that someone as remarkable as her should never have to carry, but she cannot. There are already far too many people lying to the young noble, too many people manipulating her for various ends, Helena will not be one of them, “As safe as you can be my lady.” She tries to bring some formality to the moment-

 For she feels as if the silk under her palms might scald her with the delicious heat of the skin below, and the eyes holding hers seem to effortlessly peel her apart layer by layer, and the air is thick with something both indefinable and startlingly familiar

-Yet the word  _lady_ comes out soft as a caress, Myka’s eyes flickering shut as if the word were Helena’s hand pressed to her cheek or perhaps her warm breath against the line of her throat. Oh what a foolish, perilous game she is playing. 

Myka shakes her head, eyes blinking open and the way she is staring at Helena through the mirror’s surface rips the very breath from her lungs. If Helena had to put a word to it, it would be  _reverence_. And she wants then to keep playing, if only to understand how she can possibly be the target of such undue veneration. 

“Don’t take this unkindly but why are you…how…” the words fall out in a breathless laugh, “you are the most brilliant person I have ever met.” 

“And yet I am but a simple lady’s maid?” Helena finishes the thought with a smirk only slightly tainted by bitterness.

Myka flushes a charming pink, and Helena wishes the sun had lingered a bit longer if only for her to fully appreciate the exact hue colouring Myka’s otherwise fair skin.

“I didn’t mean it like,” Myka licks her lips, eying Helena from under long, dusty lashes, and like a chord strung too tight Helena feels something snap inside her, reverberating jarringly along the inside of her ribs, “There is nothing simple about you Helena.”

Helena is the one to tear her eyes away first, swallowing thickly and opening up mostly because she is thrown so off balance. Perhaps she was wrong to presume Myka unaware of the manipulative tricks of her class; perhaps that is just the girl’s effect on her. Helena isn’t sure which scenario troubles her more, “My father was a scholar and despite knowing my sex barred me from following in his footsteps, he taught me to read and gave me full reign over his workplace and all the wonders it held.” 

Silence draws on for a few moments, and Helena curses herself even as she turns back to the mirror and the warm green waiting for her there, “But I never see you in the library,” Myka’s voice softens, the rest of the sentence falls on a wistful exhale, “It’s one of the only things I like about this ghastly place.”

“I am not allowed.” She does not tell her that she goes in the dead of night. That she has a collection of books hidden in an alcove in another wing. The words leave her dispassionately, but Myka’s shoulders tense under her hands nevertheless. 

“I am barely allowed,” she spits out the words, “they stare at me whenever I am in there.”  

A smile stretches unbidden across Helena’s lips; honest and true and crinkling at the corners of her eyes, ever the more frequent in Myka’s presence but a novelty to which she is still becoming accustomed, “Darling, people will always stare at you.”

Myka’s eyes narrow, and the resentment in their depths burn even as Helena is aware it is not intended for her, “Why? Because I am the king’s betrothed?”

And suddenly Helena is spinning the girl around by the shoulders until they are, at last, face to face. One hand rises to tightly clasp her chin, for Helena finds that there is nothing more unacceptable to her than Myka believing her worth lies in that useless boy and his rusted crown, “Because you are everything they will never have nor ever be.” They are so very close, and now it truly is Helena’s heated breath against her skin, and she watches entranced as goosebumps rise along the column of Myka’s throat.

 Myka’s lips part, her eyes scanning the lines of Helena’s face as the words tumble gracelessly from her mouth, “I don’t know if I can do this. Marry him. Bed him. I knew from a young age I had no choice in whom I would wed, but he is so very despicable. Even in my worse nightmares-”

The door swings open to reveal a servant entering the room; there to light the candles as the last rays of light flee the sky. Terror binds Helena’s heart in a vice as Myka keeps talking, keeps voicing these dangerous truths. Helena releases the girl’s chin, backing swiftly away as if burned. And she should think about what she is doing, but when she sees the servant girl leave the room, she simply reacts. 

She catches her in the corridor, pushing her harshly against a stone column as the knife she keeps in her boot finds the woman’s throat, “You tell no one.” She shoves the blade so tight, even a swallow would draw red, “You heard nothing. You saw nothing.” Her only response is a broken whimper; “If I even hear a whisper in these halls, I will hold you accountable. You will become just another mess to be brushed under the rug and forgotten.” 

The cruelty of her words claws at her uncomfortably, but it is overshadowed by the insurmountable dread for Myka, for what could become of her if even a rumour were to reach the Queen or one of her pet’s ears. She waits a breath, but the servant is just staring wide-eyed at her prompting her to growl under her breath, “Do we understand each other?”

Something loosens slightly in her chest at the rapid and vigorous nod. After a long moment her grip gentles and she backs away, turning without another word. Once the woman has fled Helena slumps, a hand falling heavily on either side of the door to Myka’s chambers. Her head hangs low, inky locks obscuring everything but the stone beneath her feet. With a shaky breath she pushes herself up and reenters the room. This time, she locks the door behind her.

She shakes her head at Myka, wary but unable to repress the pleased shiver down her spine from the way she watches her approach, “I know you are capable of playing the game well my lady, but there are more snakes to deceive than an adolescent boy and his mother.” She doesn’t resist as her hand once again slides up to grasp the girl’s chin,  “You must always be vigilant. You must trust no one.”

Surprisingly Myka grins, “And you?” the smile turns speculative, appraising, “Am I not to trust you?” 

Helena tries to laugh, but the sound becomes lodged in her throat, “I should tell you no,” her hand glides up the line of her jaw to cup her cheek, “but it would go against my heart to voice such wisdom.”

It takes her by surprise when Myka surges up to cover Helena’s lips with her own. It is a gentle press, could have been mistaken for innocent…

    Except for the way Myka’s fingers wrap around the back of her neck to hold her in place,

         Except for how Helena feels like she’s being dismantled from the inside out.

Myka’s still pushing up into her, deepening the kiss as Helena helplessly allows her lips to be nudged apart, allows an inquisitive tongue to sweep in and seek out her own, to lick across the roof of her mouth and pull an embarrassing groan from her throat. It’s ridiculous. Helena’s the one that’s had lovers, always been proud of her skill in bedding both ladies and noblemen alike. And yet her hands are shaking against the intricate lacing between Myka’s shoulder blades; and yet she feels as if she might very well shatter under the weight of the dangerous feelings igniting within her breast.

Myka pulls just far enough away to break the kiss, and Helena wonders when Myka’s hands went from the back of her neck to gripping her hair, “No one’s ever…” her pupils are blown but Helena can see that reverence again and she wishes she were sitting because her knees are feeling pitifully weak, “Thank you.” 

There is no use denying her actions, Helena knows by the intense gratitude lighting every angle of the girl’s face. No use brushing them off as they both very well know she could be executed for them just as much as she could be executed for the liberties she takes now: her index finger tracing one soft brow, then the other before bringing their lips back together. It’s just a quick press; the closest to an acknowledgment of her actions as Helena will allow. Myka sighs as she draws back and Helena grins, feeling a little more centered as she holds the girl’s cheeks and keeps her from resuming the kiss. Her desire to kiss away the pout gracing the stubborn girl’s lips is almost unbearable.

“This is foolish my lady.” She purses her lips even though she knows she’s utterly failing to hide the spark of affection in her eyes. Myka nips the pad of her thumb, drawing the digit into her mouth and sucking gently. Helena’s eyes darken and dart to the bed, briefly considering throwing her down upon the soft sheets and burrowing her face between her thighs. Perhaps it would alleviate some of the ache in knowing she would soon belong to the boy king. Perhaps it would make the hurt worsen a thousand fold.

The choice is made for her by Myka’s next words, “Then let us be fools together.”

She sighs, her hands falling away, and it takes every ounce of strength within her as she steps back, “Fools are not suffered long in King’s Landing.”

Myka’s mouth opens to argue… she can see it in the way her eyes glow bright and hot…but she stops. Perhaps she sees how Helena is just short of pleading, craving to be allowed to hold onto this maturity, to let go of her inbred selfishness and do the right thing for another for once. Or perhaps she sees the ardor; the naked need burning in her eyes and simply chooses to yield this battle to challenge her another day. Again, Helena is frustratingly unsure which she prefers. 

Myka falls back onto the bed, eyes on the ceiling as she whispers, “Tell me a story Helena.” 

Helena smiles, situating herself in the chair at her side, glad to be able to answer this entreaty, if not another. And so she weaves a tale of a shipwrecked boat, of a mad magician, and of an island of fantastical beasts. In doing so, Helena watches Myka’s breath evening out; watches the candlelight dance across the planes of her face and kiss the dip of her clavicles even as the ache within her grows. A wild tale it may be, but still far more believable than a noblewoman like Myka finding a happy ending with her lady’s maid.


End file.
